The Dying of Bobby Mars: Sneak Peek Part 3

The Dying of Bobby Mars: Sneak Peek Part 3

I hope you all enjoyed the first piece of The Dying of Bobby Mars. You guys wanted more after I announced that my first round of edits had been completed. Now this story still has a ways to go, but here’s the fourth and fifth uncorrected pieces to the story.

Hope you enjoy.


After months of watching life play out, I feel sick. My father goes out over the road again after only a week after I came home and is only back for a couple days at a time. In that time, I’ve slept and fed on my mother’s breasts…and cried, a lot. And being alone with an inconsolable infant for weeks on end drives my mother to the brink.

“Just shut the fuck up!” My mother screams, shakes me slowly. “Just fucking shut up, Bobby.”

I keep crying.

“SHUT UP, YOU LITTLE SHIT!” My mother shakes me, but her grip is weak. I fall free from her hands, collide with the floor, and then everything goes black.

“O my God, Bobby.” My mother wails, panic booming in her voice. I feel her scoop me up and my limps ragdoll in her arms. She places her ear to my chest. “I’m sorry. Please, be okay. Be okay! Please…,” then she whispered under her breath, to herself, “He’ll kill me. He’s going to killing me.”

I hear her crying.

“Please, be okay. Please, please. For the love of God, please be okay!”

This is Hell.

I’m in Hell.

This ain’t a dream or a nightmare or a hallucination or whatever…this is Hell…

Why’s this happening? I wonder, again. Why am I reliving everything? Is—

No. Please, no. You were right. You’re dying, Bobby. This is no coma, because no one would go through the trouble to save you. You’re fucking dying. It finally killed you, and now your life is flashing before your eyes.

I’m unable to cry, but I want to. I’ve never wanted to cry more. Not at my father’s funeral, not when watched my best friend die and wake up next to the corpse of the woman I loved more than anything in the word. No, I’ve never wanted to cry more than right now. Not ever.

If that’s right, then you’ll be forced to relive all of that again. See it as it unfolds and be powerless to stop it.

The realization crashes against me like a heatwave from Hell.

Please, God. Please. Don’t do this. Even you can’t be this cruel.

Just let me die.


Don’t do this to me…

God, I’m begging you. I’ve never prayed to you before, never asked for a thing, but please hear me now. Please listen to me. I’m sorry I didn’t believe in you, but now I do. So, please, listen to me now. Don’t do this to me.

There is only darkness—solitude—as my mind goes on thriving. I wait. Wait for a sign. Anything. I wait for the light to come and bring me—

I hope it doesn’t. I think. If God brings you back, you’ll just wake up to you shit life. Still homeless, still strung out.

I hope this darkness consumes me. I want it to seep into mind. I want to dissolve in this darkness until the peace of nothingness takes me.

But that doesn’t happen.

I soon open my eyes to see the face of my mother. She looks sad, but, mostly, she looks angry as if she is coming to hate me.



My father beams and his smile is infectious as I giggle, feel my cheeks smile, and say, once again, for the twelfth time, “Up!”

“You hear that?” My father says. “He said his first word.”

“He’s been saying it non-stop for days now. But since you’re never home—”

“I’ve been looking for another job, but their ain’t nothing out there right now. Nothing that can support a family.” My father says, almost growls, but he’d probably scream if he knew the reason behind my first words. In the months sense coming home, the most frequent phrase out of my mother’s mouth has been not “I love you” or “Say mama” like so many mother’s do, I imagine. The phrase that I’ve heard my mother say enough times to repeat is “Shut the fuck up.” Thankfully, for her, I decided to learn up instead of fuck. My father thinks I mean that I want to be lifted into the air like an airplane. He does so making engine sounds with his mouth and flying me around the doublewide trailer I grew up in.

“Up!” I say.

Maybe I can…

“Help!” I shout, but nothing comes out.

“Up!” I say.

“No, you stupid shit.” I say to myself.

“That’s right, Bobby-boy.” My father says oblivious to me, the real me, watching him and wanting to be heard. “Up. Up.”

“Dad! Can you hear me?” I try again to hijack my speech. “Dad!”

My words fail to cross over.

Maybe my throat is developed enough. I think. Or maybe you’re an idiot for trying and nothing can be done. It’s call “watching your life flash before your eyes” and not “reliving your life” you dumbass.

I spit up on my father’s face, he holds me out and away from him. He gags. “Take him, sweetheart.”

My mother cackles.

“Please, take him. It’s in my eyes.” He says with urgency.

She takes me places me in my swing and wipes my face with a towel that she then tosses to my father.

“You made him sick with all that spinning around.”

My father rushes into the kitchen, and cleans his face in the sink.

“Watch him.” My mother says. “I need a smoke.”

“You started smoking again?”

“Yea, Jeff,” She says my father’s name like an insult, “I’ve started smoking again. Only think that getting through the fucking day.”

“You haven’t been smoking around Bobby have—”

“Do I look like a shit mother to you?”

Silence follows; I start to cry.

“Grab a bottle out of the fridge and feed him.” My mother says as she storms out of the house.

My father does as he’s told. He takes me up into his arms, cradles me, and pops the artificial nipple in my mouth. I suckle away happily. I look my father in the eyes and see a storm brewing. He looks on the verge of exploding, but soon those clouds dissipate.

“You were hungry, weren’t you Bobby-boy?” My father says, voice softening.

I don’t want to watch him poison himself again. I pray, again. Don’t make me watch it. Please, cast me into the Lake of Fire, but not this…

My eyes close and my father kisses my brow.